


Closed Court

by tweedisgood



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6014023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/pseuds/tweedisgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Private proceedings. A little role play to liven up an evening at Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closed Court

**Author's Note:**

> To the excellent prompt by [emmyangua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyAngua/pseuds/EmmyAngua) “illegal” and with a special wave to the Retired Beekeepers of Sussex. Not much time, in the event, but I did what I could.

It is a sign of the singular characteristics peculiar to my companion Sherlock Holmes that certain words, and even more so certain...mental scenes, have a power to interest him - to stimulate him - to an extraordinary pitch. 

‘Crime’, for example.

Regular readers of my work will be aware that his view of the law is a matter of honouring the spirit, whilst often disregarding the letter. Laws that stand to protect the innocent and weak, that hold to account the responsible and the strong – Holmes holds these self-evidently to be just and unbreakable, save by cads and curs. Laws that protect only ignorance and fear, or stand in the way of uncovering deeper truths and bringing about natural justice, he takes little note of and himself often breaks without a second thought.

And some he breaks with what one might take to be rather too much thought. 

“Watson,” he called in a low voice late one evening just last week, “come over here, would you?”

The distinct note of promise, of persuasion, brought me quickly to his side. He had been reading a very dry-looking tome for hours, something to do with the law of evidence, and I had resigned myself to another night alone. We had these dry spells, whole stretches of days in which try as I might he could not be moved to tenderness, let alone passion, by any wiles I possess – and I pride myself on having my fair share.

He grasped my hand, and the press of his long fingers, twining in mine the way I longed for the rest of him to twine about the rest of me, set my pulses jumping. He smiled up at me, a black fox’s smile, sly and bold all at once.

“Would _you_ convict a man on purely circumstantial evidence? Or on hearsay?”

For a moment my heart sank. It was only to confirm some pet theory of his, then. At least I was still needed, still wanted for that. Ah, well.

“I prefer a reliable witness,” I said, knowing full well that many of his most successful cases had stood square on his deductions, not a witness within sniffing distance.

“Oh, this one is of impeccable character – bar a slight weakness for the turf, a regrettable tendency to highly-coloured, fictionalised _reportage_ , and, so I understand, sexual deviance of the filthiest sort. Can he be persuaded to turn Queen’s evidence against himself and his accomplice?”

It may be guessed what are some of the other words that stimulate the mind – and other parts – of the world’s only consulting detective. In that, he is not alone.

My luck was in.

“That rather depends on the persuasion. And on the persuader.” I stroked the back of his hand where it covered mine and watched him stretch, luxuriantly, in his chair, exposing bare skin under the shifting edges of the mouse-coloured dressing gown. I bent and kissed along his collarbone ‘til he was breathing hard.

“And if I were judge and you were jury?”

I saw where this was headed. The scene in his head was as clear to me as if he had painted it on the sitting room windows and drawn aside the curtains with his usual flourish.

“Then I should say we need a courtroom. Not there, though. My room, upstairs. I don’t fancy your collection of felons as the public gallery.”

“I know at least two of them who would be hearing nothing they had not already done themselves. Not with me,” he added hastily, seeing my expression.

We took the stairs two at a time, hand in hand and glancing about like furtive schoolboys, though all the house was long gone to bed.

He locked the bedroom door. “Closed court for this case, I think.”

“Now. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do so swear, so help me…Holmes!”

He had put his hand between my thighs and fondled me with dextrous delicacy, buckling my knees and bucking my hips towards him.

“ _member_ of the jury, pay close attention to the evidence you are about to hear.”

“Incorrigible.”

“Always. Pray, proceed.”

“My Lord. My…word.” He was naked in an instant, gloriously naked. He’d been comfortably naked all evening under the dun woollen flannel, soft as lawn from years of wear. I started hastily on my own clothing but he stopped me at shirtless and barefoot.

“That’ll do for now. Tell the court what you know.”

“I have known the accused as an intimate friend for fifteen years.”

“A friend with whom you were…often intimate?”

Curious how inflection can turn the same word into quite another word.

“As often as he would permit.”

Holmes raised one eyebrow, though his smirk told me I was allowed to have my grouse for the past week and a half’s famine.

“And how would you describe his habits?”

“Much given to…Holmes, do we have to do this, cannot we get straight down to – it’s been damnably long since…”

He pierced me with a glance. He wanted the words and he would have them, before I had him.

“His habit is to show off his body to me, to tease, to provoke until I cannot hold off touching him.”

I showed him how, coming behind him and rubbing my chest against his back, holding him to me by the waist, resting my cheek against one fine-boned shoulder blade, bending to blow soft breaths up his spine from the cleft in his muscular arse to the nape of his long neck.

“Yes, from behind is best, then he cannot see what I am about to do, can only guess, though he would have it that he never guesses.”

“And then, I would… _infer_ that at some point you yourself wish to show off your own body in turn.” 

His hand reached round to unbutton my trousers with deft accuracy.

“If it is his pleasure.”

He palmed my rising cock, dark head thrown back, planting his feet astride so as not to fall to his knees with the power of it.

“And yours.” 

“Yes.”

I should soon have run out of the words he craved had he not turned and let me hold him, for then the words came easy, then he stripped me to my skin and took me to my bed and still he asked me, asked for word and deed both.

“Would you let him kiss your mouth, your belly, put his lips round that rosy cock, suck on your fingertips and put them inside him? Would this be your pleasure, John Watson?”

Yes, yes, yes. How much more evidence do you need, oh judge and jury and prisoner. _J’accuse_ , Sherlock Holmes.

“More. I would let him do utterly as he wished with me, he would only have to say the word.”

“Utterly? What if he asked you to kneel to service him, if it was his cock and your lips, his fingers in you?”

Before he had finished speaking I was there, crouching over him my head between his splayed thighs, both of us head to end, the coverlet thrown around my shoulders, my tongue sounding him, bitter and sweet, my balls cradled by two slick fingers greased from heaven knew where he had magicked up something better than spit.

The bed was gone, the spring mattress, the roof and walls with them, the only places on earth that existed were the two where our bodies joined, where I took him in, working on him and being worked, mouth filled with his heat, cock full to bursting from the pressure inside me of his busy fingers finding the same spot again and again, arched between two points electric and earthed, on fire from the charge running through me.

I hadn’t even to put a hand to myself before we convulsed, Holmes first and I, ever following, after. Words had left us a while back, but if anyone had passed the door, they would have needed none to hear quite well enough what we were about.

We settled in each others’ arms. Half the night at least we could linger there, before the world and its laws had their way and we must part, that the tyranny of ‘decency’ might have its sway.

“How do you find the defendant?” Holmes whispered, tucking my cheek under his chin. 

“Incorrigible,” was my verdict.

“Always.”

__END_ _


End file.
